W E B Griffin - Corp 04 - Battleground

by Battleground(Lit)

  You are not only about to make a flaming ass of yourself, but you are going to embarrass that nice woman.

  He drained his rye and ginger ale.

  I will leave by the side door, so that she can't help but see me leave and will understand that I am leaving, and not making eyes at her, or anything like that.

  He determinedly kept from looking at her as he walked to the side door. As he reached the door, a half dozen people started to come into the bar from the street. He had to stop and wait for them. He glanced at her. She was no more than five feet away.

  She was looking up at him. She smiled.

  "The Club Car, right?" she asked. "You don't read very much, right?"

  "I just came in for a drink," he blurted.

  "I thought it was something like that," she said.

  Christ, she knows I followed her in here!

  "I have to meet someone for dinner," Moore said. "Just killing a little time."

  "So do I, unfortunately," she said, more than a little bitterly. "Have to meet someone for dinner, I mean."

  She ground her cigarette out in the ash tray and then looked up at him. Their eyes locked for a moment, and John felt a constriction in his stomach.

  She broke eye contact, fished in her purse, and came up with another cigarette.

  She just put one out. What is she so nervous about?

  He held his Zippo out to her. She steadied his hand with the balls of her fingers. It was an absolutely innocent gesture, yet it gave him immediate indication that he was about to have an erection.

  She raised her eyes to his again.

  "Well, nice to see you again," she said.

  There was nothing to do now but leave.

  "I'll remember it a long time," he heard himself say.

  She laughed softly, deeply.

  "Oddly enough," she said. "I think I will, too."

  As if with a mind of its own, his hand went out.

  She caught it, as a man would, and shook it. But of course she wasn't a man, and the warm softness of her hand made his heart jump.

  "Good-bye," she said as she took her hand away. "And good luck."

  He didn't trust his voice to speak. He nodded at her, and then went through the door onto the street.

  I'm in love.

  No, you 're not, asshole. All it is is that you 're not getting saltpeter in your chow anymore.

  For Christ's sake, she's thirty, you never saw her before the train, and you'll never see her again.

  You are an asshole, Sergeant Moore. There is absolutely no doubt of that.

  He walked up to Broad Street and turned north, back to the Union League Club.

  What did she mean "unfortunately" she had to have dinner with someone? Was she suggesting that she would rather have dinner with me?

  Back to Conclusion One, Sergeant Asshole, you 're an asshole.

  "May I help you, Sir?" the porter asked, barring his access to the Union League.

  "I'm meeting Mr. Marston," John said. "William Marston."

  "Mr. Marston is in the bar, Sir," the porter said, pointing.

  William Dawson Marston IV, forty-six, a tall and angular man in a nicely tailored glen plaid suit, was sitting in a leather upholstered captain's chair by a small table, his long legs stretched straight in front of him and crossed near his ankles.

  He smiled and waved when he saw his nephew, then made a half gesture to get up.

  "Sit you down, Johnny my boy, and have a drink."

  "Hello, Uncle Bill."

  "Christ, you even look like a Marine," Marston said.

  "Thank you."

  "What will you have to drink?"

  "Rye and ginger."

  "Ginger ale will give you a hangover," Marston said. "I'm surprised you haven't learned that yet. Or are you that impossible contradiction, a teetotal Marine?"

  "What would you suggest?" John asked.

  A waiter had appeared.

  "Bring us two of these, will you please, Charley?" Marston said.

  "What is it?" John asked.

  "Scotch and water. Very good scotch, and thus with very little water. They call it 'Famous Grouse.' "

  That will not be Uncle Bill's second drink. More likely his fifth or sixth.

  "I have been here some time," Marston said, as if he had read Moore's mind. "Absorbing some liquid courage. That would annoy your father, but if you report on our conversation, you may feel free to tell him that yes indeed, Uncle Bill was at the bottle."

  "Why should I report on our conversation?"

  "When you learn the topic, you will understand," Marston said.

  He looked around impatiently for the waiter, then turned back to John.

  "When are you leaving, John?"

  "Thursday."

  "Where are you going? Did they tell you?"

  "Not specifically. Somewhere in the Pacific, obviously. From here to San Diego, and then to Hawaii."

  The waiter appeared. Marston picked up his glass immediately and took a swallow.

  "Not surprisingly, when I spoke with him, your father was rather vague about your status," he said. "How is it you're not an officer?"

  "I can't talk about that," John said.

  "You in some sort of trouble?"

  "No. I've been led to believe the commission will come along later."

  John sipped his scotch. He would have preferred rye and ginger ale.

  But he's probably right about the ginger ale giving me a hangover.

  "Getting right to the point," Marston said. "There are those, including your father, who would hold that this is absolutely none of my business, but I have chosen to make it my business: Has your father discussed your trust fund, funds, with you?"

  "No," John replied, and then asked, "Is there any reason he should have?"

  "That sonofabitch," Marston said, bitterly.

  "Excuse me?"

  "I shouldn't have said that," Marston said. "I beg your pardon. I really hope you can forget I said that."

  "What about my trust fund?"

  "Funds, plural. Three of them. Together, two comma trust funds."

  "Two comma?"

  "Think about it."

  What the hell does "two comma" mean? Then he understood. When figures in excess of $999,999.00 are used, for example, $1,500,000.00, there are two commas.

  "What about my trust funds?"

  "There are three," William Dawson Marston said. "The first is payable on your achieving your majority-how long have you been twenty-one, Johnny?"

  "I'm twenty-two," John said.

  "Then you should have had the first one turned over to you. You say that hasn't happened?"

  "No. I don't know what you're talking about."

  "The second is payable on your marriage, or your twenty-fifth birthday, whichever comes first. And the third on your thirtieth birthday, or the birth of your first issue, whichever comes first. Your father hasn't mentioned any of this to you? Even in his marvelously opaque way?"

  "No."

  "Then I'm very glad that I decided to butt in," Marston said.

  "I don't understand you," John said.

  "I need another drink," Marston said. "You ready?"

  John looked at his glass. It was three quarters full.

  "No, thank you," he said, and then changed his mind. "Yes, please, I think I will."

  Marston held his glass over his head and snapped his fingers loudly until he had the waiter's attention.

  Father often says that Uncle Bill is crude on occasion.

  John took a deep swallow of his drink.

  "I love my sister," Marston said seriously, and then unnecessarily adding the explanation, "your mother. I really do. But she has a room temperature IQ, and when your father and/or the Bible are concerned, she is totally incompetent to make decisions on her own."

  I wonder why I have not leapt loyally, and angrily, to Mother's defense?

  "If she has ever raised with your father the question I just raised-and I will give her the ben
efit of the doubt on that subject-your father doubtless explained that you're only a child, and not nearly as well equipped to handle your financial affairs as he is. And she was surely reassured by those words."

  "Why are you bringing this up?" John asked.

  "You may have noticed over the years that I am not among your father's legion of admirers," Marston said.

  "No, Sir, I never thought anything like that."

  "To put a point on it, I can't stand the sonofabitch," Marston said, and then quickly added, "Hell, there I go again. Sorry."

  "I think I better get out of here," John thought out loud.

  "Keep your seat!" Marston said, so loudly that heads turned. "I have started this, and I will finish it."

  "I don't like the way you're talking about my parents."

  "I'm talking about your money. Two comma money."

  "I don't understand," Moore said.

  "That's the root of the problem," Marston said. "I presume that you have considered the possibility-God forbid, as they say-that you won't come back from the war alive?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "And I presume that the Marine Corps encouraged you to prepare a will?"

  "Yes."

  "And I will bet you a doughnut to a bottle of scotch that you left all your worldly possessions to your parents, yes?"

  "Something wrong with that?" John asked, a little nastily.

  "Nothing at all, so long as you know what you're doing," Marston said. "But at the time you signed your will, you thought that your worldly possessions consisted of your civilian clothing and your ten thousand dollars worth of government life insurance, no?"

  "Yes," John agreed.

  "You now know that your estate will be somewhat larger than you thought it would amount to. I want to make sure that you understand you can dispose of your estate in any manner you see fit. You can for example leave all or part of it to your sisters. Or to your rowing club. Or the Salvation Army. Even-God forbid-to Missions."

  "Jesus Christ!" John said.

  "Him, too, I suppose. But you would have to route that through some churchly body, I think."

  John looked at his uncle. Their eyes met. They smiled.

  "I'm sure I don't have to say this, but I will. I don't want any part of it," Marston went on. "I want you to come home from this goddamned war and spend it yourself. Preferably on fast women and good whiskey. At least for a while. I..."

  He reached over and snatched up John's Zippo. He ran his fingers over the Marine Corps insignia.

  "This is all I want in way of remembrance, Johnny. May I have it?" Marston's voice broke, and John's eyes teared. "I'll give it back when you come home."

  "Of course," he said, and his voice broke.

  There was a full minute's silence as they composed themselves. John broke it: "What should I do? About the trust funds?"

  "Change your will as soon as you can," Marston said. "If you're curious about the numbers... hell, in any case, go to the Trust Department of the First Philadelphia and ask for Carlton Schuyler..."

  He interrupted himself to take a card and write the name on it.

  "Schuyler's a good sort, and he's probably already a little nervous that your father's 'handling' your affairs for you. If I know it's not legal, he damned well does too. Anyway, Schuyler will have the numbers and can answer all your questions."

  Moore nodded, and then asked: "When I have all this information, what should I do with it?"

  "You're asking my advice?" Marston asked. "You sure you want to do that?"

  "Yes."

  "OK. Have Schuyler set up another trust for you, using the assets of the trust fund that should have been turned over to you. Let the bank manage your assets while you're away. I've asked about this. It's a common practice for people in the service. Put all of it, save, say, a thousand dollars, in the trust."

  "I don't quite understand," Moore confessed. "What would the difference be? I mean, it's already in a trust..."

  "Your father has access to it the way it is now. This way he couldn't touch it."

  It was a long moment before Moore replied, "I see."

  His uncle nodded.

  "And why everything but a thousand dollars?" Moore asked.

  "Good whiskey and wild women, Johnny, are expensive. Have a good time before you go over there."

  "Christ!"

  "I didn't exactly have Him in mind," Marston said. "I was thinking more of the long-legged blondes you might bump into. Pity you're not going through San Francisco. The long-legged blondes around the bar at the Andrew Foster Hotel are stunning."

  Like that woman, that stunning woman, in the bar at the Bellevue-Stratford?

  "OK," John said. "I'll do it first thing in the morning."

  "Then I accomplished what I set out to do," Marston said.

  "Thank you," John said.

  "You mean that, Johnny? Or was I putting my nose in where it had no business?"

  "I mean it," John said. "But what I don't understand is why? I mean, why did my father do what he did? Why is he always doing something like that?"

  "In this case, it's pretty obvious. Neither his mother or your grandfather left him or your mother very much in their wills. They left everything in trust to the grandchildren. I won't say-though I have a damned good idea-why they chose to do that, but they did."

  "Tell me what you think."

  "They didn't particularly like him, obviously, and they knew that leaving the money to your mother would be the same thing as leaving it to him. Ten minutes after she got it, he would have talked her out of it."

  "Oh."

  "In his mind, he was right about not bothering you with the details of your inheritance. He was protecting you. He's been that way as long as I've known him. He really never questions the morality of anything he does. He thinks I like to buy his goddamned first class cabins on the Pacific Princess, and pay his tailor bills, for example. But I shouldn't have called him a sonofabitch, even if he is a sonofabitch, and I'm sorry."

  John chuckled.

  Marston smiled at him.

  "Finish your drink, and we'll have dinner. I'm not sure I'll be able to find the dining room as it is."

  William Dawson Marston IV found the dining room without trouble, and he got through the cherrystone clams and half his steak; but then, without warning, he lowered his chin to his chest, dropped his wine glass, and went to sleep.

  John was alarmed, but quickly learned that the Union League was prepared for such eventualities. The maitre d'hotel and an enormous chef quickly appeared, hoisted Marston to his feet, and carried him out of the dining room.

  "We'll just put Mr. Marston up overnight, until he feels better," the waiter said softly in John's ear.

  John was back across Broad Street and almost to the First Philadelphia Trust Company parking lot before he realized that the last thing he wanted to do now was get in the car and go home, where he would probably have to face his father.

  If I go back to the bar in the Bellevue-Stratford, maybe she'll be there.

  There you go again, Sergeant Asshole For one thing, she won't be there, and for another, what do you think you would do if she was?

  He went back to the bar in the Bellevue-Stratford and she was not there.

  Well, asshole, what did you expect?

  He took the same seat at the bar he had before.

  "Scotch," John said. "Famous Grouse, if you have it. With a little water."

  He laid money on the bar, but when the bartender delivered the drink, he said, "It's on the gentleman at the end of the bar."

  John, uncomfortable, looked down the bar. A middle-aged, silver-haired stout Irishman waved friendlily at him.

  Well, he doesn't look like a pervert.

  He waved his thanks.

  "I wondered if you would come back in here," the beautiful older woman said, behind him.

  "Jesus!"